Playing Mary
by starsinjars
Summary: Dean would do anything to make his father happy. And so he would play the role of the dutiful wife, play the role of the late Mary Winchester, all to keep his family together.


Title: Playing Mary

Summary: Dean would do anything to make his father happy. And so he would play the role of the dutiful wife, play the role of the late Mary Winchester, all to keep his family together.

A/N: Soooo hey guys I'm not dead I know shocking right?

Anyway, I'm into spn now. It's not what I was expecting but I'm too attached to do anything about it.

This was a collab between me and my friend, and because I'm the one who got into spn first and dragged her into it I have the honor of posting it. Yay me xD

i'msosorryconcerningmyotherfics noneofthemhavebeendroppediswear i'llpostthemassoonasicanpleaseforgiveme

**Warnings: This contains non-graphic sexual content, non-graphic physical and sexual abuse of a child, and incest (John/Dean, obviously) **

o-o-o-o-o-o

The first time it happened, Dean was six years old.

John Winchester had, for the past two years, been struggling with his young sons and no wife. No wife to answer cries in the night, no wife to nurse the boys when they were sick, no wife to cook the food and clean the house and all those other things that Mary used to do that John had never noticed.

No wife to satisfy his other needs.

Perhaps his ideas were old-fashioned; no, not old-fashioned. They were obsolete, unrealistic, _demeaning_.

But that was the way he had been raised to think, and there was no pressing circumstance to convince him to change.

His eldest son Dean, though very small, had had motor skills enough to hold his baby brother and a bottle at the same time; and by the time Sammy had reached the "Terrible Twos", they could manage dry cereal, or sometimes with milk which John had poured into an empty plastic water bottle the night before, all by themselves.

He couldn't leave them for very long, though, so his needs went unfulfilled. Out of both a sense of duty to his wife's memory, and a feeling of responsibility which kept him from leaving the little boys alone, John did not have sex for those two years.

And it was driving him _crazy_.

At first, just his own hand was enough. Pornos and magazines were easy to come by and easy to keep out of the boys' reach. But as time wore on, masturbation just wasn't doing it anymore. He felt tempted by women in the bars of the towns he and his boys drifted through; tempted even by a young, vulnerable-looking teenager standing alone on the corner at night.

John tried to shake his mind free of such predatory thoughts. It was disgusting, evil. But they had already taken root. It would just be too easy, _too easy_ to just take a girl off the streets and do whatever he wanted. Touch her. Rape her. Kill her if he had to. Hell, it might be nice! Nice to make someone else feel his pain. To make someone else suffer the way he was suffering.

But thoughts of the boys held him back again. He couldn't show that violence to them. Any violence they saw should be only in the interest of his real, righteous motive: justice for Mary. Revenge was an ugly word, a cheap word. This wasn't revenge, John told himself. It was justice for the woman he loved, the mother of his children.

His children, his beautiful children. Dean especially. He clearly had been given Mary's beauty. The eyes were hers, the lips, the little chin. His hair was lighter than John's or Sammy's. It wasn't Mary's fair hair, but it was close enough.

Close enough for John to start to have thoughts. Evil thoughts. Disgusting, disturbing, frightening thoughts.

Because with each passing day, Dean seemed to grow lovelier and lovelier. More and more like Mary.

Mary's laugh. Mary's smile. Mary's little gestures and mannerisms that Dean probably only subconsciously remembered.

He was so much like Mary that it was frightening. But not as frightening as the want. The scalding _want _inside of John, the burning sensation flowing through his veins that was trying to make him do something terrible.

That was making him want his own _son_.

It was sick. John knew it was sick, sick and disgusting and wrong. A sin. A crime. An abomination.

But still the wanting persisted.

John's eyes wandered over Dean in an obstensibly paternal manner; after all, the child was only six and still needed his father's help with bathing and dressing sometimes. Dean had no reason to distrust his father who would sometimes pass his hand lingeringly along Dean's back while he was in bed, ruffle his soft light hair, stare so intently at him that sometimes it felt uncomfortable.

Dean feared his father. Dean adored his father. Dean would do anything his father asked of him.

And so, one chilly night when John touched his forehead to Dean's tiny shoulder and said,

"Don't you want to help Daddy, Dean?"

Dean could only say,

"Yes."

o-o-o-o-o-o

Dean had to be good at taking care of Sammy and his father, so he was. Dean had to be good at keeping secrets, so he was. Dean had to be good at taking Daddy's cock whenever and wherever it was asked of him, so he was.

"You are a man to the outside world, Dean," John had said. "When I'm not around, you're the man of the house, and it's your job to look after Sammy. But when it's only us two, behind a locked door," John leaned down to his eight-year-old son's eye-level as he patted the wooden door of the dingy motel room which kept light out but let cold air in, "When it's only you and me, I'm the man, and you have to submit. I'm your father, so you don't question me. You know what I was always taught?"

Here he paused for Dean to obligingly wonder. He'd already learned better than to ignore any of his father's desires, voiced or implied. "What was it, Daddy?"

"I was always taught that 'the wife should submit unto her husband'. And of course I was the husband with your mother."

"And now?"

"Well, I'm still the husband. And the father, of course. But for now, you'll be playing the part of the wife. It's just like acting, see? Like in a movie."

"Oh. That's okay!"

"Of course it is. Would I tell you to do something if I didn't think it was ok?"

No, certainly not! Dean trusted Daddy absolutely. Daddy was wise and knew everything, Daddy was the smartest and the strongest and the best at everything, Daddy could do no wrong.

To Dean he seemed untouchable, immortal. Perfect. Dean was happy to do anything that Daddy said. To follow orders was his duty, but also his pleasure. Because Daddy was wonderful, and anyway whatever he did was because he loved Dean and Sammy and Mama so very much.

Even if Mama wasn't around anymore, he'd said, they still loved her. So they had to get justice from the monster who had taken her away.

And, Daddy had continued as he was grinding against Dean's slender twig of a thigh, he loved Dean especially. Dean was his special boy, his favorite, his darling. How could Dean refuse anything to the man who loved him so?

He loved Dean so, so much that he gave Dean Mama's wedding ring and put it on a chain for Dean to wear round his neck. For safe-keeping, he said, while he was playing the part of Daddy's wife.

So even though it hurt, sometimes a little and sometimes so much that Dean would throw up gross yellowy-clear stuff and sort of fall asleep sometimes, Dean never could refuse when Daddy wanted to touch him, to suck on his dick or push his own cock inside of Dean till he bled. If Daddy asked, Dean would use his hand, his mouth to make Daddy happy, even if he was tired or still hurting.

Because that what the wife is supposed to do, Daddy said. The wife must make the husband happy. The wife must satisfy the husband, and take care of the child, and clean the house and cook the food.

So Dean took Daddy's cock whenever he was asked, and took care of Sammy as best he could, and was forever wiping away at the mysterious stains in the various motel rooms with a cloth and cleaning spray, and learned how to use a toaster without getting burnt more than once or twice. The toast was hot and the beer was cold when Daddy came home from hunting, and Dean was ready to be a good little wife and massage the husband's shoulders while he ate and told them whatever he felt necessary for them to know.

If Sammy was loud when Daddy wanted to sleep, Dean must keep him quiet. So he invented all sorts of silent games to play with Sammy, drew pictures to amuse him, rocked him so that he might be able to go to sleep sooner. When Sammy was sick, Dean attended him carefully so that his cries or moans of pain and discomfort wouldn't disturb Daddy.

If Dean himself was sick, he must hide it. Sometimes it was too hard, and he wouldn't be able to do anything but lie on the bed on his back and will the pain to go away, and then Sammy would crawl up next to him, and Dean would pet his back and what was meant to soothe Sammy would actually make Dean feel better.

But although Sammy would try his best not to be a nuisance when Dean was sick, Dean still had to take care of anything Daddy needed. Food and beer and sex if he wanted it. He had to listen to the things that Daddy wanted to talk about, even if it was boring.

All of it, though, Dean told himself, everything he went through was worth it.

Because Daddy loved Dean. And there could be no greater reward in the whole world than Daddy's approving smile, Daddy's rare laugh, Daddy's love.

For Daddy, Dean would do anything, no matter how painful.

o-o-o-o-o-o

"Come on, Sammy! You gonna stay in bed all day?"

Sammy groaned against Dean's too-cheerful voice. Normally his brother wasn't much of a morning person. But today he was happy. He was cooking blueberry pancakes and setting the table with orange juice and whiskey.

Because today Dad was coming home, and when Dad came home, he expected a clean place and hot food and a happy wife.

Oh, they didn't really say it out loud anymore. And at fifteen Dean was old enough to realize that he wasn't Dad's wife, could never _be _Dad's wife. But that didn't stop him from _acting _the part. Because acting, like in movies, is okay, and anyway if Dean didn't do all the things a wife was supposed to do, then who would? _Sammy_?

Not a chance! Sammy wasn't responsible enough for such a job. Dean had made sure of that. Made sure to give his baby brother a childhood, since he'd never had one of his own. Made sure that Sammy would be innocent for as long as possible. Made sure that Sammy would never, ever, _ever _know what happened between Dad and Dean.

Besides, Dean adored Dad and would follow any orders he was given.

Very deep inside, Dean knew it was wrong. And as he was getting older, he was starting to think that he didn't... that he didn't want it to continue much longer. Oh, he still adored Dad, of course! And some of the things Dad wanted to do didn't hurt as much any more, not so very much, since now Dean was bigger. And it's not like he would ever _leave _Dad and Sammy.

That would be crazy! Leave his family? Family was all he had. Family was all there was, and all that was important. Whatever had to be done to keep the family together, Dean would do it, even if it meant spending every evening on his knees between Dad's legs. A small time of unpleasantness was well worth keeping the family together. A lingering pain in his stomach was well worth keeping the family together.

He didn't really mind always sharing Dad's bed. Being held as tightly as though he was a kid's teddy bear and not a man's lover.

And he _wasn't _a man's lover.

He was the eldest son, the big brother, the good little wife even if John no longer said so. A lover is a partner, on equal standing with the other partner. Dean was not on equal standing with Dad! He was subservient, he was below and not-as-good, he was only the _wife _and a man could always get rid of a _wife _that displeased him and easily get another _wife_.

Dad had said so himself, when Dean was not being submissive enough. He knew better than to talk back. But he'd been having this headache for days and days and days, and he really didn't want to satisfy Dad right now, though he did always want to make Dad happy.

But Dad had given his orders. And by not following them, Dean was not being a good wife. A good wife is submissive. Dean had been insubordinate. Dean must be punished.

So Dad had Dean pull down his pants and lean over on the bed, and then he took off his belt and hit Dean with it, over and over and over again, until Dean learned his lesson, and promised not to be bad anymore.

Then Dad wiped the bloody wounds on his back and buttocks with a cool damp cloth, and told Dean over and over, "It's only because I love you, Dean; don't you see that it's for your own good? As long as you're good, I'll never need anyone else."

And yes, Dean had understood. It was for his own good, it _must _be for his own good. Because Dad loved him and Dad knew what was best and questioning Dad's orders is what could get him or Sammy killed.

So, Dad had said, as long as Dean remembered that, remembered to follow orders and be good, Dad would never need anyone else but his special boy, his favorite, his darling. If Dean did what he was supposed to, then Dad would have everything he needed at home.

And Dean always hoped if what Dad needed was at home, then Dad could be home more. He had to hunt of course, had to get justice for Mom.

But when he was done with that, or when there were no leads, he would have no reason to leave them anymore, no reason to be gone so long, and Dean would not be half-starving just to make sure there was enough food for Sammy for however long Dad's absence stretched, and Dean would not have to assure his frightened baby brother that Dad was fine and would be home soon, and Dean would not even have to dodge Bobby's phone calls so that he wouldn't know just _how _long Dad had been gone.

If only Dad could stay home all the time, everything would be fine. He could get a job like he used to have, and they could have a little house somewhere, and the family could stay together forever.

That was Dean's only wish. On any birthday that didn't go unnoticed or forgotten, in every plaster wishing well in a strip mall or tourist trap, on every light in the sky that could be vaguely construed as a shooting star, Dean would wish for his family to be together forever.

He would hold Sammy close to him even when he protested at being too old to be cuddled. He would mop away at stains that could never come out till his hands bled. And when Dad was away for a long time, Dean could touch Mom's ring which still rested safely beneath his shirt, and remember how much Dad loved them, and he would have the strength to get up every day and keep moving, keep holding, keep cleaning.

He was determined to keep it all together, for Dad, for Sammy. For Mom.

And that was why, even after the pancakes had long gone cold, and Dean had drunk half the whiskey himself, and Dad _still _didn't show up, Dean wasn't disheartened.

Because Dad would be home soon, and until then Dean would be strong and good and keep everything together. Sammy would be safe, and Dad would be happy.

That was all Dean wanted.

o-o-o-o-o-o

Even when Dean was an adult, his... unusual relationship with his Dad continued. Dad still needed him, and he and Sammy were more helpful than ever during hunts. They were tall, they were strong, they could fight. With Dad regimenting them as strict as any soldier, they followed orders and took out demons and monsters and things worse than even the most creative nightmares could ever, ever come up with.

And then they went back to the no-tell-motel alongside the highway next door to Joe's Coffee Stop and Ellie's Deli, and Dean would suck his Dad's cock, let his Dad fuck him from behind or bent over a chair, be the good submissive little wife as from his sorry excuse for a childhood, all while Sammy was in the next room or the motel lobby or in the library doing research.

Dean was Dad's favorite still, by far. He never questioned Dad, he always followed Dad's orders, he had no intention of ever trying to leave the family.

But Sammy.

Sammy was different.

Dad wasn't stupid. Neither was Dean.

But Sammy intellect was of a different sort than theirs. Sammy was really and truly bright, and sometimes Dean envied his ability to learn things.

He did not envy Sammy's rebelliousness.

He could not understand why Sammy wanted to _leave_. To go to Stanford! To leave the family! How could Sammy want such a thing? How could Sammy want to be anything but a hunter, anything but part of the family business?

It was unthinkable-inconceivable-ridiculous!

Dad always said that family comes first. Dean always did what Dad said.

Why was Sammy any different? Hadn't Dean raised him well enough?

Dad asked Dean that once.

"Did you raise him well enough?" he asked idly, laying on his back on the bed, with one arm around Dean's shoulders, "I thought you did. You seemed like you did a good job."

Dean's whole body was suffused with warmth at such praise. He couldn't help but feel that he deserved it, though he modestly said, "I did my best, Dad. Sammy's a good kid; he's just confused right now."

"Confused could get us killed."

"I'll talk to him later," he promised. "He's smart. He'll listen."

But Sammy didn't listen. He went to Stanford. He left the family.

Dean and Dad were alone for the first time in years. Dean had hoped that maybe it would make things easier; transporting two people was easier than three; and when Dad was stressed there would be more freedom for Dean to comfort and soothe him.

Dad worked hard. He deserved to be loved and doted on by Dean, since he didn't have a real devoted wife. But Dean did his best to keep Dad satisfied.

He whispered if Dad thought Dean's voice too deep. In bed, he doused himself with the perfume that Mom used to wear. And when he did, Dad was gentler with him. He made love to him, or so Dean fancied. And having someone make love to him felt much better than only being a means for Dad's quick satisfaction.

It was sick, Dean realized by the time he was twenty-three. It was sick. It was like a horror story, like unbelievable urban legends-turned-Fox-5-news-story.

His father had sex with him. And sometimes he liked it. Many times he liked it or wanted it. It was his duty to follow Dad's orders. But it was also his pleasure to follow Dad's orders. He loved Dad so completely and so blindly that nothing was too much for him to ask of Dean.

He was afraid, too. Because if he was bad, Dad would still beat him.

"It doesn't matter how big you get, boy," Dad said, "I'm still your father and you still have to obey me. If you don't, I'll whip you just as if you was ten."

But it was only for Dean's own good. Everything Dad told Dean to do was for Dean's own good. Because Dad loved Dean, just as much as Dean loved him.

That was what Dean believed, chose to believe, was made to believe- he didn't know which it was but it didn't matter, because to him it was the ultimate truth, the only thing that mattered, and would always be as true and as strong and as unchanging as it was when Dean had had his childhood ripped violently away from him leaving hideous gaping wounds to scar over, to cover themselves in any way they could.

This was the way things were, and this was the way it would always be. Nothing would ever change. It would never end.

It shocked Dean when he realized that he never thought it would end.

He may have wished it at times. Wished to maybe have a girlfriend, a lover, an equal partner. But somehow he never really believed that he would have a life of his own. He never conceived of anything being any way other than what they were, because they had never been any other way.

And so that was why Dad's death was such a shock.

A staggering blow dealt by fate that Dean nearly could not withstand.

Dad was dead. Gone forever. Like Mom.

He would never come back.

Dean would not spend long nights waiting for him, reassuring Sammy, anymore.

Dean would not try to think of breakfast foods to cook that would go well with scotch anymore.

Dean would not be pushed onto the floor on his hands and knees while Dad thrusted brutally in and out, in and out, in and out and out and out and out-

It was over. All of it was over.

Dean sat dumbly for many minutes after he was gone (gone forever and ever and ever and) and Sammy bowed his head and let some tears leave his eyes.

He looked to Dean for comfort, as he always did, and Dean mechanically put his arms around Sammy and held him like he was little again, like if he would only close his eyes then all this would be a nightmare and he'd wake up and Sammy would be little again and Daddy would be there to tell him that everything was going to be fine.

But Daddy wouldn't do that. Couldn't do that. Because he was dead.

Dean was the man of the house when Dad wasn't around.

o-o-o-o-o-o

Sam was not concerned by Dean's behavior when Dad died. Not at first.

Because while Sam wasn't near as broken up about it as Dean was, well... Sam had never been as close with their father as Dean always seemed to be. Of course he loved his father. And despite John's gruff ways, Sam knew that he must love him back. How could he not love his own son?

He grieved more for the father that he wished he'd had, than for the father he'd grown up with.

But after two, three, four months passed, Dean didn't seem much better. He tried to act like himself, but Sam could see through it. Dean was in agony, he was despairing, he was heartbroken.

Almost, Sam couldn't help but think, almost as though he'd lost his husband and not his father.

Sam threw the thought away as quickly as it came. It was ridiculous! That was their _father_! How sick do you have to be to think of such a thing?

And yet, Sam thought, as he watched Dean touch a suspiciously shaped lump under his shirt, and yet it still would _seem _like Dean was mourning a lost lover.

He chalked it up to Dean's unusually close relationship with Dad, however, and so he did not know that Dean wore his mother's wedding ring on a chain still, did not know that he would hold it delicately between two fingers and think of the man who gave it to him and the woman it belonged to, how twisted it was for a man to give his wife's wedding ring to his _son. _How filthy and disgusting he was- _they _were. It wasn't really Dad's fault; at least not entirely. Dean was lovely, Dad had said, almost impudently lovely. How dare he be so pretty? How dare he tempt his own father?

It wasn't all Dad, certainly, and sometimes Dean had even liked it.

Sometimes, as Dean cradled Mom's ring, he had the terrifying suspicion that perhaps he was so sick, so disgusting, so horrible as to actually be in love with his own father. The thought alone made the bile rise in his throat; because it was bad, wrong, bad bad wrong wrong sick disgusting _evil _and if it was true then Dean deserved to go to jail, to hell, to be punished and whipped and beaten.

If it was true, then he probably didn't even deserve to live. Because how could he be in love with his own fucking _father _and still be even remotely human?

He couldn't. Plain and simple. He couldn't.

He knew Sammy was worried. He tried hard to be normal. To be good. He took care of Sammy, not like he took care of Dad, but he took care of Sammy, who stayed with him, and although he didn't say it, Dean heard the unvoiced promise.

Dean did the only thing he could do.

He devoted his life to hunting and to Sammy. That was all he needed. That was all he would ever need. Dad was gone. All Dean could do was hold together what was left of the family.

But what was left of the family was perhaps not what Dean had thought.

Because they were called to a young man claiming to be the son of John Winchester.

At first, Dean scoffed, tried to laugh it off.

A son? How could Dad have a son? He didn't have kids with anyone before Mom!

But Adam was younger than Dean, younger than Sammy. He was little more than a boy. If he was the son of John Winchester, then it was after Mary had died.

After he had started using Dean as his wife.

And that, Dean thought with almost hysterical laughter, was not possible. Dean was a good wife. A good submissive little wife. Dad wouldn't need anyone else. He had his special boy, his favorite, his darling, to take care of every whim, to raise his son, to clean his house and cook his food.

Adam must be confused, or lying, or a demon in disguise. His being the son of John Winchester, _Dean's _John Winchester, was impossible.

Dean only agreed to go because he wanted to be the one to tell the poor kid that he must be confused. It was only fair, as the widow of John Winchester. Because that was all that was left of Dean, really. He didn't have a personality or interests or friends or a life. He was John's mess, his sloppy seconds, his widow. No better than a used car. Who wants damaged goods?

But Adam...

Everything he said, all the evidence he showed... all of it, all of it checked out. Everything. Even the Impala- _Dean's _Impala! Dad let him drive _Dean's _Impala?!

He went to baseball games with him? Visited him on his birthday? What, did they play catch on the front lawn with a baseball, too?

Dean felt sick. The son in him was jealous first, insanely and outrageously jealous. How _dare _this kid, this _Adam_, be treated so well! How _dare _he be treated like a son by John instead of like a tool, an object, a good submissive little wife?!

He had a _mother_! He had a home! He had a childhood! He had been _happy_!

Why did he have to have _their _father, too, and in a way _they _never even had him? Dad never took them to a baseball game! Dad never remembered their birthdays!

It was unfair, completely and ridiculously unfair. Dad had said that family was the most important thing. But in the end he kept secrets from his own sons. He had a second life they knew nothing about, where he got to be normal and happy if only for a little while. Dean never had that. He had never known a normal life. He had never known happiness. It was enough to make him feel physically sick, and he swallowed hard against the churning in his stomach and willing it not to become vomit.

But before he could collect himself, it suddenly occurred to him that to have a son, John must have had sex with someone else. With a _woman_. A woman who was not their mother.

Dad had always said that he couldn't date or remarry because of their mother's memory- that _that _was why Dean would be his wife.

If Dean was his wife, then he didn't need any other woman. If he needed another woman, then that meant that Dean hadn't been enough for him.

But all that Dean had ever been... all of it had been for John. Only for John. He never thought of anyone else. Of anything but to make his Daddy happy.

He had only ever been Daddy's good submissive little wife. And he hadn't even been able to do that. Not effectively enough to keep him from straying.

Straying?

Straying...?

And it was then that Dean realized, with a powerful heave, that he felt as though Dad had cheated on him. Cheated on him as though they were in a relationship. An actual real relationship. And it hurt. And it hurt because Dean loved his Dad. And not in the way he was supposed to.

He did throw up, then, all over the diner table and on the floor next to their booth, and Adam jumped up with an exclamation and a couple waiters ran over to clean up and Sam helped him outside while making apologies for his brother, "I'm so sorry, my brother's all right, he's just really allergic to chocolate and he took a sip of that without knowing- no no no, no it's not your fault, it's not anyone's fault, don't worry, I'll just take him home and get his Epi-pen, everything's fine..." and within this soothing mantra he managed to get the still-retching Dean outside, where he was able to heave and heave and heave until his stomach was as empty as his heart.

Dean wept, unable to stop himself even though they were in public, huge racking sobs that shook through his whole body and burned his throat almost as much as the bile did.

Sam put his arms around him and murmured nonsense about how everything was all right, everything would be fine, but he _didn't _know that, _couldn't _know that, and as much as Dean wanted to believe him, it just wasn't possible.

At the point where he didn't have anything left for tears, and he was really only screaming and not crying, he began to feel a sort of restless hysteria, which had him picking and tearing at his clothes until he found what he was looking for: Mom's ring. He ripped it from his neck, breaking the chain into little glittering pieces, and slammed it to the muddy ground like a scorned lover.

Sam picked it up.

"Dean," he said gently, carefully, "What is this?"

Dean had the pleasure of laughing a laugh that was more than a few shades of madness, "It's Mom's wedding ring."

"Mom's...?"

"That's right, Sammy. Dad gave it to me. He asked me to look after it, since he didn't have a wife, and couldn't date any women 'cause it would disgrace Mom."

"He couldn't..." Sam's lips moved without making any sound for a moment or two. Finally he forced out, "Dean? Are you saying that Dad... that Dad...?"

"That Dad fucked me?" he asked cruelly, knowing it would hurt Sammy but wanting for a moment to share his awful ugly pain, "That's right. He fucked me, Sammy. Mom died, so Dad asked me to take her place. He fucked me. And sometimes I even liked it. That's how fucked up I am, Sammy. That's how fucked up your disgusting pathetic excuse for a brother is. He fucked me, and I liked it, and I loved him. I loved him. I loved him, Sammy," and suddenly he wasn't angry anymore, only hurt, so so so hurt, in more pain than even being forced to take Daddy's cock dry when he was eleven.

Sam had begun to cry, "Oh, Dean," but instead of running away or punching Dean in the face as he'd expected, Sammy threw his arms around Dean again, and held even tighter, "Oh, Dean, I'm so sorry! I'm so, so sorry, I swear I didn't know! Or I woulda stopped him! I woulda helped you! Oh, Dean!"

"Of course you didn't know, Sammy. I didn't want you to know about such awful things."

"But Dean, _you _shouldn't have known either. D-Dad," he had to force himself to say the word, "Dad shouldn't have done that to you. He never should've touched you. Whipping us was bad enough. But he never ever ever shoulda touched you s-sexually."

Dean stared at him, completely confused.

"Don't you get it, man?" Sam continued desperately, "Don't you see? He was wrong, Dean! He was _wrong_! He was abusing you- hurting you- using you like you weren't even a person. But you are a person, Dean, and he had no right to hurt you like that, man. He never did. Never! and if I had known I woulda killed him, I woulda-"

"No!" Dean covered his ears. "Don't say that, Sammy! Dad loved us! He only wanted what was best for us!"

"No, Dean, he only wanted what was best for _him_!" he tugged at Dean's hands, trying to pry them off. "If he loved us, he did a shit job at showing it. But he _used _us because he wanted revenge!"

"But Mom..." Dean hardly recognized his voice in such a pathetic whine.

"Mom made a _deal_, Dean." Sam said firmly. "It wasn't justice that Dad was after. Justice would be for a deal unfulfilled, or unsolicited murder. But Mom made a deal, and it was paid in full. Dad just wanted revenge."

"Do you blame him?!" Dean nearly pulled away from his brother's implications of their mother's worth.

"Not- not exactly. I don't blame him for missing mom. For hating demons, wanting revenge. But I _do _blame him for how he treated us. Dean, he had no right to hurt us. And if he loved us half as much as he should have, then he woulda at least put us somewhere safe. Somewhere we could-could go to school and make friends and-you know. Have a life. He could've done that, man. But he didn't. He abused you. He raped you. And I _do _blame him for that. And I can't ever forgive him. 'Cause he wasn't really even my father, man. He donated the sperm. But _you _raised me. _You _took care of me. _You _loved me, Dean, and I love you, and- and- look, I'm not a little kid anymore. But I still need you. I need you, and we need each other, and we can always take care of each other. So it's okay now, man. I promise it's okay. None of this was your fault. It was Dad's."

"But-" Dean shook his head back and forth, back and forth, as though he couldn't understand, "But Sammy, he said he loved me! He said he loved me, Sammy. Was he lying? Was he lying? I don't- I can't do it, man, I can't fucking handle this, my god-"

"Nah, man, he wasn't lying. He did love us. But he was too selfish to act on it, man. It wasn't because of us. It was because he was so self-centered that he didn't see how we were suffering. You think I didn't notice that he missed your birthday? That he didn't ever just fucking _play _with us instead of all that stupid training? He only wanted one thing, and to hell with everyone else. But Dean, it's gonna be all right. Look, it's over. He can't ever hurt you again, man. Never ever again. You're free."

Free. Free? _Free_?

A terrifying open-ended word. Free? If he was free then he wasn't secure. He didn't have the predictability.

It was so easy before. Take care of Sammy, be a submissive little wife, follow Dad's orders. Take care of Sammy, be a submissive little wife, follow Dad's orders. Take care of Sammy, be a submissive little wife follow Dad's orders Take care of Sammy be a submissive little wife follow Dad's orders Take care of Sammy be a submissive little wife follow Dad's orders follow Dad's orders follow Dad's orders follow Dad's orders-

But. But Dad wasn't here anymore. He wasn't here to give orders. He wasn't here to force Dean over the sink and fuck him without even asking, wasn't here to pull Dean's hair and scrape at his scalp and bite his shoulders and neck and throat and chest wasn't here anymore anymore anymore and Sammy said that he was free.

Free. He was free.

He was _free_.

"Sammy," Dean gasped. "It's over. I'm free."

"That's right, man."

"But I- but I still love Dad, Sammy. I love him so much, it's gross, it hurts."

"I know, bro."

"But I'm still- I'm still free. I love him but he can't hurt me. I can love him and still be safe from him."

"Yeah, man." His voice was constricted with tears.

"I...I don't know how I feel, man."

"That's okay. You'll figure it out when you're ready."

"I fucking hate Adam, man."

"It's all right, I won't tell him."

"Okay. Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think it would be okay if I still loved Dad even after what he did, and not be so angry with him? If I- I mean if I forgive him."

Sam swallowed hard. "Of course it is, man. But. I mean. Will you be okay if I don't forgive him? Because I can't, Dean."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's okay. Do you think it'll ever go away? Do you think I'm really in love with my own _father_?"

"It happens to other people whose parents abuse them. So I don't think you're in love with him the way you were with- like- Lisa, but. In a way, it prob'ly does feel like that. Maybe you could, you know. Talk to someone?"

"Bobby?"

"If you want to, man. Just. Yeah, talk to someone. Maybe we should take a break from hunting-just for a short while. Bobby'd be more than glad to see us, I bet."

"I- yeah. I guess he would be," Dean said slowly. "I...I don't know what to think, man. My head's twisted up so bad, I don't even know what's going on. What the fuck, man? What the fuck?"

"It's okay, Dean. It's okay now. It's gonna be okay. I promise. I'm gonna make it okay for us, Dean. I swear on it. I love you."

"Yeah, okay," Dean said. Because when Sammy said that he loved Dean, there was no hesitation, no space in the air with words unsaid hanging overhead and whispering _but? but? He loves you but?_

Sammy said "I love you" and that was it. And Dean could believe him. And Dean _did _believe him.

And suddenly, it seemed to Dean, that maybe Dad hadn't been his whole life. That he'd always had Sammy. That he'd been able to have things besides just making Daddy happy like a good submissive little-

Maybe Dean wasn't just a widow, John Winchester's sloppy-seconds-used-car-damaged-goods. Maybe Dean was something else.

And maybe now, maybe now with Sammy's help, Dean could find out what that was.

o-o-o-o-o-o

A/N: I personally believe that this should be rated T because nothing's really graphic. This is the fun, guilty ship that I castaway on. xD If you wouldn't mind, for this first ever spn fic feedback would be amazing for both my friend and I.

As always, thanks for reading!


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